


Every Rule Has An Exception

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Present Tense, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is forced to redefine love, thanks to a certain consulting criminal. The consulting detective, however, has a completely different opinion about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here He Comes A-Courtin

John Watson has a set of rules when it came to fucking people. There were only two rules, actually, because when your sister is an alcoholic and complete strangers want to kill you because of a certain consulting detective’s antics, you realize that two rules are all you can afford to have.  During the fifteen years in which John had been sexually active, he never broke them. Sure, he may have toed the line a couple of times, had a couple of wild shags here and there, but he never broke the rules.

** 1\. Don’t have sex with anyone when you’re drunk.**

Bottom’s up, _he grimly thinks to himself. This is, what, his sixth, seventh glass that hour? His conscience is chiding him for drinking so much alcohol, reminding him over and over that he could get alcohol poisoning, that he was fucking up his liver, that he would eventually drink himself into alcoholism, all because of that bastard. That perfect, flawless, snide, condescending bastard._ __

_ Then again, perhaps John shouldn’t have kissed him. _

**2. Don’t have sex with anyone you just met.**

_“You look like you’ve just gone through several circles of Hell.” A shrill, accented voice startles John out of his beer-induced stupor._

_ John scrutinizes the man who appeared in front of him, bathed in a warm red glow supplied from the pub’s lighting. He’s clad in a  maroon dress shirt and dark pants, much like a certain annoying flatmate. Clipped dark hair caresses his pale face, which contains two shrewd eyes looking at John. _

_“Can you tell me which circle I’m currently in, then?” John asks sarcastically. _

_ The man laughs (Rather maniacally, John thinks hazily) and replies, “Judging by how long you’ve sat in the corner and how many beers you’ve had, I’d say third circle. Gluttony. Though I wouldn’t mind being with you in the second,” He quips, winking at John. _

_Though he is piss-drunk, John is able to dredge up memories of a relatively dull English class he had taken when he was fifteen. His class was forced to read Divine Comedy and painstakingly analyze each and every line. The first circle was Limbo, the third was Gluttony, and the second was--what was the second? Finally, the answer comes to him: Lust._ _ Oh God, this man is flirting with him. _

_The man holds out his hand and says, “The name’s Jim.” _

     ___________________________  
Looking back on this encounter years from now, John recalls how at that moment, he had no idea whatsoever that he’d be fucking what he thought was a complete stranger, a little less than an hour later.

But life has a funny way of working out and so it happens that John Watson is thrusting his cock into Jim Moriarty in a posh flat located in Kensington.  They both come with shouts, moaning ribaldrously, and finally falling asleep, their limbs entangled in one another. John sleeps off quickly but Jim is awake for much longer, running his fingers up and down John’s body, softly murmuring threats that sound like pillow talk, as he claims his new prize, his new lover, his new  _John_.    
___________________________

Sherlock is on edge. It has been seven hours and fifty-one minutes since John had banged 221B’s door shut, obviously in a hurry to leave their flat. Where could he be? Sherlock had called and checked every possible location: Angelo’s, St. Bart’s, Lestrade. He even called one of John’s ex-girlfriends (Jeanette, the teacher, Sherlock deduced, by her tired voice and the sound of a pen viciously grading papers), only to receive a snide response instructing him to do something with a shovel that was anatomically impossible.

It occurs to Sherlock while he is ravaging the flat in hopes of finding a distraction from John, that he could call his pompous brother and demand the location of a certain flatmate. This notion is immediately shoved to the back of his mind, and he continues knocking experiments over and carving the periodic table on the kitchen table with a pocket knife.

_Pad, pad, pad._ Mrs. Hudson is coming up the stairs, in her fuzzy slippers. John gave them to her for her birthday.

She knocks cautiously once, twice, and then three times on the door, and when she receives no response apart from a loud crash, lets herself in. She scans the mess that presents itself before her with the affection and amusement only a mother could have. Liquids of all sorts spilled on the floor, papers scattered everywhere, an armchair knocked over, and the eye of the hurricane, Sherlock, is perched upon a table next to his precious violin, inspecting his bow.

“Sherlock, dear, don’t you know what the time is?” Mrs. Hudson inquires groggily. She has dark circles underneath her eyes, and unsuccessfully tries to repress a yawn. Her hair sticks up in all directions, not unlike Sherlock’s. “I’ve been up all night, because of you barging around upstairs. Normally you’re up at all sorts of hours, but you never make such horrid noises.”

Sherlock sighs ostentatiously. Satisfied with his bow, he picks up his violin with trembling, spidery fingers, taking care not to harm it in any way.  “John’s left me, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing of any importance.”  
___________________________

_ Where the hell am I? _ _,_ John thinks, as he wakes with a start. He looks around and sees a window. The blinds are closed, but he can tell that it is dark outside. A digital clock catches his attention, informing him that it is currently 3:17 A.M. As he sits up, trying to recollect his memories of the night before, he discovers that he is naked. No shirt, no jacket, no underwear-- _naked_. Combined with this new information and the sticky sheets in which he had been sprawled across moments before, a growing horror eclipses him as he realizes that he’d just fucked someone. He doesn’t even know who he fucked. It could have been a prostitute off the street, one of his exes, or God forbid, Sherlock Holmes.

He tries to get out of the enormous bed, but his muscles start screaming at him like an unpleasant gym coach he once encountered in primary school. Gritting his teeth, he swings his legs off the side of the bed and tries walking. Rubbing his eyes several times, he is finally able to clearly take in his surroundings. The bedroom has a sleek, modern look to it. A shelf is precariously stuffed with all sorts of books; it’s too dark for John to be able to read any of the titles. His feet are on cold marble that sends shivers up his spine. For some inexplicable reason, John Watson feels trapped.

Scanning the room a second time, he sees a door. Its knob gleams in the darkness. __

_Freedom.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from 'Sex Spider' by Gogol Bordello.


	2. Align My Heart, My Body, My Mind

John cautiously turns the knob, and opens the door. A hallway greets him. It’s decorated in the same stark color scheme as the bedroom. There is nothing adorning the austere, imposing walls. The hallway horribly reminds John of the famous scene from  _The Shining_.  He remembers the snide comments Sherlock was making throughout the entire movie, about how there was no such thing as the paranormal and how he complained childishly when John forced him to watch it.

Oh. Right. 

_ Sherlock .  _

One single memory stands out from the hazy mess of recollections that last night is comprised of, and it is the one single moment in John’s life after Afghanistan that he wishes to forget. Not the suicidal feelings, not the whole mess at the pool, just that one fucking kiss. 

Sherlock would be, at the very least, wondering where John is right now, wouldn’t he? No, he probably didn’t care. Maybe he never cared. 

John’s head is spinning by now. The feeling of being caged in returns, engulfing him and reducing his equilibrium to shit. He stumbles a bit, bumping in to the wall. His army instincts kick in, and leave a pounding rhythm that is ingraining itself into his head. He needs to get out. Now

He hurries down the seemingly endless hallway until,  finally , it makes a hairpin turn and leads John into an enormous living room. The lights are dimmed, bathing the room with a sensual ambiance. Windows completely take up one wall and offer John a view of a sleeping London. Stars scintillate in the sky, and it strikes him right there and then, how utterly beautiful the nighttime sky is, especially when he’s not chasing criminals, or rather, being chased by them. 

His reflection in the windows catches his eye and he realises how vulnerable he is. Naked, in a stranger’s flat, at three in the morning, with nebulous memories of how he got there. He sees the lines carved into his body that only aging can bring about. The sandy hair that is ruffled like a wet swan’s feathers. The hidden muscles in his legs and arms that his cosy jumpers often hide. The puckered scar on his shoulder, a constant reminder of how close Death was to taking his life. He sees things that only those who have been intimate with him have seen. He sees himself. 

No infuriatingly enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. No annoying ex-girlfriends who cling to his body. No Sarah asking him to cover her shift at St. Bart’s. 

Just himself.

A voice rings out, startling John as it asks, “Admiring yourself, eh? I would too, if I had your body.”

John knows that voice. This is the voice that taunted Sherlock, that threatened John, that killed scores of people and will continue killing until it is finally satisfied. This is the voice that sent shivers of fear up John’s body at the pool, and is making John shiver once more. Except now, it’s due to a completely different reason.

It’s Jim Moriarty. Brilliant.

Suddenly, the memories flood back at him, each one hitting him with more force than the previous. Jim flirting with him, Jim reaching his leg out to his crotch, Jim cupping his face as he kisses him, Jim stroking his cock, Jim moaning his name over and over. 

Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim. 

“Hello, there. What a surprise. Fancy meeting you here.” John’s tone is sarcastic. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it’s also the only way to respond to a criminal mastermind without either completely losing your dignity or getting you killed. 

Jim plays along. “What a surprise, indeed, Johnny boy. Seeing as this is my apartment and I fucked you a couple of hours ago.” He practically screams the last sentence. John winces.

He warns, “You’ll wake up the neighbours.”

“What neighbours? I own the entire building. No human being enters this building unless I want them to, and you know how I despise plebeians. Besides, if there were any  _neighbours_ ,” Jim spits out the word as though it physically offends him, “they would have woken up a long time ago, what with your wailing and shouting. Never thought you, of all people, were a screamer.”

John reddens, and he can feel all the heat in his body rush towards his cheeks. He  was always pretty vocal, but none of his previous sexual partners ever mentioned it.

“Don’t worry,” Jim’s voice suddenly murmurs into his ear. John didn’t hear him striding over to him, and his eyes were tightly shut, so he couldn’t have seen him. Goosebumps appear on his skin. Part of him wants to believe that it’s all a dream, a really horrid dream. A teeny, tiny part of him, but nevertheless. “I like that about you. In fact, that’s one of the many things I like about you.” 

Jim’s hands start caressing John’s body, lightly ghosting over his shoulders and over his chest, trickling down his back, tracing endless shapes and symbols. Despite John trying to remind himself how morally wrong this situation is, he leans into Jim, inhaling the smell of linen off of him.

Odd. He never expected a criminal mastermind to smell like freshly washed sheets. Then again, he never expected that he would fuck a criminal mastermind, either. 

Unfortunately, John’s conscience has finally decided to wake up, and starts screaming at him. “Jim, I-I can’t. This is so wrong, just so fucking wrong.”

“You are right, this is wrong. I should be naked, too.” Jim’s tee shirt comes off and is chucked into a corner of the room.

“No, I mean, you and me, together, _it’s not_ _right_. This isn't supposed to happen, and I should probably leave right now, and we should never--”

John is cut off by a knife that Jim is currently holding to his throat. He can see their reflection in the window; it’s a pretty bad sight. His eyes are the size of dinner plates, his cock is half-erect, and a long, bare arm is snaked around his midsection. 

“You listen to me John  _fucking _ Watson, and you listen to me well, because if you aren’t hearing each and every syllable of what I’m saying, I’ll have every single one of your organs eviscerated using a crude wooden knife and then fed to you,” Jim hisses. “The oh-so-great Sherlock Holmes merely treats you as an inferior, a servant, a pet. He doesn’t care about you the way I do. He doesn’t realise your true worth, and he is certainly not interested in you.”

John starts, “That’s not tr-”

“ Shut up! ” he screeches, the knife pressing down harder. “Didn’t you see him with that  _darling_ Miss Adler? Didn’t he tell you that he was ‘married to his work’? Didn’t he push you away when you kissed him eight hours ago? That bastard doesn’t know what’s he’s got, and it’s  _such a pity_ , because I’m about to take it away from him.” His breath is warm against John’s body. “You know all of this is true, don’t you, John?”

John’s loving this. He’s getting off on it. Every second of it. The sheer power and control that Jim wields is the strongest aphrodisiac that John’s ever experienced.  For once, someone is making the decisions for him, for once, someone understands him, for once, someone recognises him as his own entity, not Sherlock’s little friend. Sure, that someone may be a psychopathic mass-murderer, but by now, John doesn’t care. He’ll take whoever he gets. 

Jim’s still ranting by the time John is done with his emotional realisations, obviously not finished with his tirade. John gets him to shut up by clutching his waist and planting his lips on Jim's. Jim immediately complies, and they stand there for what seems like ages, encompassing each other in their bodies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is taken from "Dustbowl Dance" by Mumford and Sons.


	3. Old Caresses Once Again Irritate

Cars are passing, ambulances are incessantly wailing, the sun is shining. Life is going on in London, because that’s what life does. It does not stop, and it does not pause, no matter how much Sherlock Holmes wants it to. 

Interesting. It seems he’s grown attached to John. But, is it brotherly or romantically? Even the consulting detective himself can’t tell. 

It’s six in the morning right now. Most normal people are waking up and getting themselves ready for their boring lives. Sherlock’s hellish night has finally come to an end.

No, no, no. It wasn’t a hellish night. It was a perfectly fine night. John’s absence doesn’t have anything to do with Sherlock’s mood. Sherlock is perfectly capable of adequately functioning by himself. He certainly doesn’t need some army doctor with a psychosomatic limp to help him. 

 Sherlock’s just finished  _The Sirens of Titan_ (Victor had recommended it to him ages ago, back when they were young blokes at uni.) when the tea kettle finally shrieks. He stalks over to the kitchen, where the kettle is placed next to a jar of appendixes he’d managed to filch from St. Bart’s. Turning off the stove, and reaching for a mug, he pours himself a cup and settles back into his armchair. 

Surveying the room, it mildly surprises him how much of an influence John’s presence has had on the room. His cigarettes are stashed in the skull (John still thinks that he’s successfully hidden them from Sherlock.), one of John’s hideous jumpers, gifted to him by a banal girlfriend, is draped across the sofa, and his laptop is on a table. John’s influence is not only present in materials though; the flat overall looks less mustier and brighter, and Sherlock himself looks less angular, less emaciated, less isolated. 

He’s put on a couple pounds, a trademark of conjugal bliss, his relentless brains reminds him. He remembers informing Molly of this very fact, when she was going out with ‘Jim from IT’, or rather, Jim Moriarty. 

Sherlock sighs. He seems to be doing a lot of that in the past twenty-four hours. The enormous git otherwise known as  Mycroft, still has yet to find Moriarty. The mastermind could be anywhere in the world right now, even right here in London, and that very thought vexes Sherlock to no bounds. Not only because a man like Moriarty needs to be caught and killed before he can harm any more people, but because he is one of the few people who know that the only way to lure in Sherlock is to attack the one person whom he cares about most.

Pushing his thoughts away to the back of his brain, Sherlock delves into the pocket of his dressing gown and fishes out his phone. Maybe Lestrade’s finally got an interesting case among the dishwater that Scotland Yard normally deals with. 

_ No new messages. _

It’s as if the stupid thing is mocking him. 

Hurling his phone at the wall, he picks up his violin and saunters over to the window, peering down at the masses going about their uneventful days and nights. Delicately plucking all four strings to make sure the violin’s still in tune, he nods, satisfied, and begins playing Bach’s  _Sonata No. 1 in G Mino_ r. Five minutes and thirty-two seconds in, Sherlock hears a door slam. 

The slam itself is loud, with enough force to be made from someone from the ages of 25-40. Mrs. Hudson’s gone out on errands, and besides, she never slams the door.

John’s back.

Cautious, no, tired footsteps ascend the seventeen steps slowly. Sherlock resumes playing, except this time, it’s much louder and faster than necessary. His fingers speed to hit each and every arpeggio, in a race to overtake his bullet-like brain and conquer the ceaseless thoughts that are swarming his brain. How the hell hasn’t John come inside the flat, yet? It seems to him as though John’s tormenting him on purpose, taking his own sweet time to finally present himself. 

Finally, finally,  finally , the door to their flat opens and Sherlock’s starved mind is overloaded with John. His mussed, but not greasy, hair-- _ took a shower but didn’t bother to comb his hair: comfortable with whom he spent the night with _ \--bleary eyes-- _ spent the better part of the night awake, obviously not tired or sleepy, or else he wouldn’t be standing upright_ \--relaxed demeanor-- _was with someone he cares about--_ _,_ and a  scarf? 

John never wears scarves. The scarf itself is obviously not John’s; first of all, he doesn’t even own scarves, and the offending scarf itself is much too expensive for John to afford. Why in the world would John wear a scarf, unless-

Oh.  _Oh._

John offers a small smile. “Morning, Sherlock. Sorry I left so abruptly after--well, yeah. Hope you didn’t worry too much about where I’ve been.” The aroma of Earl Grey is still in the air and John glances off meaningfully in the direction of the kitchen. His eyebrows furrow in mild irritation when he sees all the experiments that are stationed in the kitchen, but he finally sees what he’s looking for: the kettle. “Is there any tea left?”

Sherlock refuses to respond, and only continues playing at an ear-splitting level. John sighs internally, and busies himself by making a cuppa and rifling through the newspaper he’d picked up on the way to the flat. 

The headline story jumps at him:  _CIVIL SERVANT’S SON ASSASSINATED!_

John can feel a knot forming in his stomach. Could Jim have done this? John is never going to be sure whether or not every little bad thing that happens in life is due to Jim or not. Whether or not even he, himself, would be safe from Jim’s clutches. 

What even is his standing with Jim? Are they fuck-buddies, a one time thing, or do they have an actual relationship? 

His phone beeps.

_ You have one new message!_

John clicks “view message”.

          _ Like what you see on the front page? -J_

His eyes widen, as his first question is now answered. A numbness that John is thankful for washes over him. Reality would sting too much. He comes to in a moment, and responds.

         _You did that?_

The phone beeps again.  


_Of course. Who else would have the brains to pull it off? -J_

John rolls his eyes.

_            Someone’s cocky. Besides, how do you know I’m reading the paper? _

___            Eyes and ears around the world, love. -J_

 ___           Creep._

 ___           Dinner, 7:00, my flat. A black cab will be waiting outside of Baker Street. Be there. Or  else. -J _

John chuckles slightly to himself over the sheer absurdity of his entire situation. An ex-army doctor meets a consulting detective, tries to kiss said consulting detective, proceeds to fuck the detective’s archnemesis, and then is invited, or rather, commanded to dinner at the archnemesis’s flat the next evening. Done pondering, John then realises that his tea’s been done for a long time. Ambling over to the kitchen and pouring himself a mug, John also realises that the flat is silent. Dead silent. Sherlock’s stopped playing. If one could even call it playing.

He turns to look at Sherlock. He’s clutching his violin with a vice-like grip, and is staring outside the window. The light illuminates Sherlock’s inky curls and does nothing to hide the impassiveness of his face. John then buries his nose back into the newspaper, intent on trying not to be bothered by Sherlock’s silence.

However, inside, Sherlock’s still reeling from the deduction. He has absolutely no idea why it’s affecting him this way. He looks John up and down, trying to extract some equally offending deductions to clear his mind but none of them can comfort him.

Halfway through a particularly interesting article about a butcher, John notices Sherlock’s staring. Could he have deduced where John’s been? Is he working it out right now? John’s not afraid, for some reason. He reckons that, at this point, he’s got nothing left to lose. He revisits the paper, but can still feel Sherlock’s piercing glare on him. 

Usually, it’s the other way around. Sherlock’s doing something, such as conducting an experiment or researching a certain topic, and John’s got a question he doesn’t want to ask. He instead tries to find the answer by trying to pick up clues, but after a couple minutes, Sherlock finally interrupts him and tells him to ask whatever’s on his mind.

John steels himself before asking, “What? What have you got to say?”

“You’ve just fucked someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from "The Jeweller's Hands" by the Arctic Monkeys. I also highly recommend that you listen to the Sonata that Sherlock plays in this chapter. Also, the rating might go up within the next couple of chapters. Happy Easter/Passover/spring break!


	4. I Meet You Up So I Can Leave

Relief settles over John. He was expecting a much worse, yet accurate, deduction. Sherlock doesn’t know who it is. John calmly responds, “Yes. Yes, I have. And you care why?”

“I don’t care, I’m just simply pointing out the fact that last night was the first time you engaged in sexual intercourse after returning from Afghanistan,” says Sherlock nonchalantly. 

John raises his eyebrows at that statement and returns to the paper. He begins reading the movie reviews section.  A solid silence descends upon the flat, and John’s enjoying the tranquility, more so due to the chaos of last night, until Sherlock decides to break it with a single question.

“Who was it?” 

That’s unusual. Usually Sherlock can deduce each and every detail of whom John’s been out with, when he returns home from things like dates or football matches. It dawns on him that Jim’s just as smart as Sherlock is, that they’re both two sides of the same coin. Except that one of them is attainable. 

He certainly can’t expect John to answer that question. “Deduce it, Mr. I Can Tell An Aeroplane Pilot By His Thumb.”

Sherlock grows petulant, and turns his back on John dramatically, crossing his arms and staring intently at the wall.

John’s enjoying this. It’s very rare to have the upper hand on Sherlock. He’s one of the few people who’ve ever had the pleasure to do so. “You honestly don’t know, do you? The great Sherlock Holmes has absolutely no idea, does he?”

Taking Sherlock’s silence and tense posture are as a “yes”, John triumphantly returns to his paper. After a half hour, or so, Sherlock stalks out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom.

_________________________________

It’s 6:30 before John suddenly remembers about his date with Jim. It was a Sunday, and he didn’t have to go into St. Bart’s, so he had ambled around London for a couple hours, and came home. He had dozed off right up until now, when he started panicking about said date. 

What is he supposed wear? Does Jim expect him to bring anything to the date? Is it even a date? God, it was like being a hormonal teenager all over again. 

Rolling groggily out of bed, he looks into his closet. What is he supposed to wear to dinner with Jim? It’s not like he could Google “what to wear to a dinner date with your flatmate’s archenemy”. He ventures into his closet, deciding to wear something spiffy. Searching through worn out jeans and jumpers, he finds a nice pair of trousers and a brown shirt that Harry always insists “brings out your eyes”. 

Surveying himself in a mirror, he doesn’t think he looks that bad for someone who is used to looking like they pet kittens for a living. Checking his watch, he realises he has fifteen minutes until dinner. Inspecting himself, he can see dark circles under his eyes. He combs his hair, and with a satisfied nod, heads downstairs.

Sherlock, his fingers steepled, is sprawled out on the couch, his eyes jammed shut. John isn’t sure if he’s sleeping or if he’s thinking, but given Sherlock’s nonexistent sleeping patterns, he’s pretty sure it’s the latter. Moving quietly so as not to disturb him, John wades through the sea of clutter coating the flat’s floor and reaches the window, peering down.

Jim is true to his word, as a black cab discreetly pulls up in front of 221B’s door. 

“You look nice,” Sherlock mutters, his eyes still shut. He’s still in the same position as before, except now his muscles are tensed.  

Looking for his jacket, John responds, “Thank you, I guess.”

“It was merely an observation, not a compliment. Though I suppose it could be taken as one. Nevertheless,” Sherlock’s eyes open and lock into John’s. “I hope the cautious wealthy suitor of yours who has sent an inconspicuous taxi thinks likewise. Why else would you be wearing such an outfit, if not to impress them?”

Only receiving a door slam in response, Sherlock turns over onto his side and draws his knees up to his chest.

________________________________________

The taxi stops outside of a towering, upscale building that is flanked by lush trees on either side. John’s twenty-three minutes late, thanks to traffic. He tries to hand the driver the cab fare, but he refuses to take it. He wonders what sort of trouble the driver got himself into, which led to him having to work for Jim.

Getting out, he walks up to the intimidating door. Despite the fact that this is the second time he’s been here today, John still feels a small amount of trepidation. It’s partly due to the fact that he’s late, and party due to the fact that he doesn’t have any idea of what to expect behind this door.

He looks around for a doorbell or a buzzer of some sort, but can’t find one. Giving himself a last-minute check, unaware of the hidden camera currently watching him, he knocks several times on the door. It immediately swings open to reveal Jim, who is wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, making John feel overdressed.

“John!” Jim cries. “You came! Late, nevertheless, but I’ll blame it on that doddering old cabbie.”

“Yes, well, when you threaten me as a form of inviting me for dinner, I think you should be expecting me to take you up on your offer,” John says as Jim steers him into the lobby.

Jim only laughs in response. 

The lobby of the building itself looks harmless with potted plants and potpourri. There are armchairs positioned around a glass coffee table, and abstract paintings mount the walls. The normalcy of the room contrasts with the odd couple currently in it.

It’s a facade for the sinister dealings and the multitude of deaths that originate from this very building. 

They walk towards the elevator, and Jim presses the ‘up’ button. After a few moments, the doors open.

Once in the elevator, Jim sidles up to John and murmurs, “Press the ninth button.”

John does as he’s told, and the doors immediately shut. The elevator whirs up to and stops at what is presumably the ninth floor. The doors open to reveal a grandiose foyer. Jim entwines his fingers in John’s. 

Making their way past several rooms, one of them containing solely computer monitors with CCTV playing on them, they finally reach the kitchen from which the delicious smell of Thai food is emanating. 

Not knowing what to do, John takes a seat at the mahogany table. There are actually only two seats at that table. The seats are identical in every manner, except for the fact that the seat directly opposite John radiates power. Some sixth sense of his can tell that that is where Jim sits. He wonders who else Jim normally eats meals with, if anyone. 

Clutching a steaming pot with psychedelic duck-patterned potholders, Jim announces with a flair, “ _Khao phat pu!_ Fried rice with crab meat.” 

Setting the pot down, he rummages through the cupboards adorning the walls and emerges triumphant with two glasses and two plates. He plunks them down on the table.

“Help yourself,” he calls out as he disappears into another room.

Uncovering the pot, steam blows into John’s face and his stomach starts rumbling, reminding him that he didn’t have much of a lunch. He realises that there isn’t anything to scoop the food out, and searches through several drawers to find a ladle. One drawer is filled to the brim with knives, and judging by the length and serrated edges of some of the knives, John isn’t sure whether most of the knives’ purposes are purely culinary. He jams the drawer shut, trying not to dwell too much on that fact, just as Jim returns, clutching a bottle of wine. 

“What are you looking for?” Jim’s eyes bore into his.

John answers, “A ladle for the food.”

“Two drawers down.” He then proceeds to uncork the wine, pouring generous amounts into the glasses. The wine’s blood red, and leaves John with an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his stomach.  

Finally finding the ladle, John dishes out  _khao phat pu_ on their plates and they eat in companionable silence. 

The food is extremely spicy, lighting John’s mouth on fire. He’s always been fond of spicy food, but this feels like the fires of Hell are currently occupying his mouth. “Did you cook this?”

Jim scoffs, “Of course not. You don’t expect me to cook, do you?”

“What’s with the duck potholders?” John asks, before raising his wine glass to his lips. 

He rolls his eyes theatrically. “Sebastian gave them to me a couple months ago as a joke. It’s a pity I’m not a fond of burning myself, or else I wouldn’t have to use them.”

“Sebastian?” Another man? Maybe  this isn’t as exclusive as John thought. 

“My right-hand man. He’s to me what you are to Sherlock.” He smiles seeing John’s stony face. “Don’t worry, it’s purely business. Nothing romantic. It’s nothing to get jealous over, though I do like a jealous boyfriend,” he finishes seductively, leaning across the table.

John’s fixated on that last word. “Ah, so we’re boyfriends now? One night of fucking each other and now we’re in a relationship.” A sardonic smile plays on his face. 

“You’re the one who just said it, not me,” Jim counters. “You know what, I’m sick of talking.” And with that he saunters over to John, who has just put his spoon down, and brings John’s face toward his.

Their faces mere centimeters apart, he breathes, “I want you to know that from now on, you are  mine . This the point of no return, John Watson. You are mine and I am yours.”

John closes the rift between them by pulling Jim towards him and kissing him softly, a stark contrast from the night before. Their faces meld together, their breathing getting laboured. John nips at Jim’s body, leaving little love bites at his neck, his ears, his shoulders. Jim’s hand snakes down in the John’s trousers, stroking his cock forcefully through the fabric of his pants. 

“Bedroom?” Jim manages to pant out.

John only grunts in response and he can hardly keep his hands off of Jim as he pulls John towards the bedroom. Once there, he proceeds to snog him senseless, running his hands through his jet black hair.

Jim rips his clothes off, raking his blunt nails up and down John’s body, leaving marks John knows will look horrid in the morning. He takes John’s fully erect cock in his mouth, leaving him moaning in pleasure. It’s clear that Jim hasn’t had a lot of experience, but then again, neither has John. Finally, Jim stops, but only to thrust his fingers up John’s arse. One, two, then three fingers are leaving John dumbstruck with gratification. 

In between moaning, John gasps, “Just fuck me already, you sod.”

Consenting, Jim enters him, slowly with shallow strokes, and then goes deeper and deeper, leaving John’s knuckles dead white and his hands clutching at the sheets of the bed. With a guttural shout, Jim orgasms and his body grows lax. When he pulls out, John winces at the empty space that was recently occupied. He has come long before, but the effects of his climax are still resonating inside of him, giving him spikes of pleasure and a hazy sense of satisfaction. .

They lie down on the bed, spooning each other. Their moans and shouts subside into soft breathing as they nod off, each unaware that a certain consulting detective is currently high as a kite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from "Fuckarias" by Those Dancing Days. I've changed the rating of the story from Teen to Mature, as well. Enjoy.


	5. A Fire Burning With Crops All Around Me

Two minutes and fifty-four seconds. The effects should be kicking in now. 

Sherlock has always preferred injecting, rather than snorting or even worse, orally consuming cocaine. Injecting it is far more precise, more clean cut. It concentrates dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine in the shortest amount of time, providing a better, unadulterated high.

He has two hours, give or take ten minutes, before Mrs. Hudson returns from the cinema, having been on a date with “the nice elderly man that I met at Tesco’s”.

A dull ringing sound permeates his skull. 

Thirty-six seconds to go.

The dangling black curls framing his wan face are askew, and his two sunken eyes have red tendrils touching enormously dilated grey eyes. His palms are damp, coated with sweat despite Sherlock’s frigid interior. His limbs are quivering, sending wintry shivers coursing through his entire body. Fingers tapping in 9/8 at 156 beats per minute. 

For one moment, all of this stops. For one moment, the universe is perpetually silent. For one moment, both Sherlock’s brain and his body, completely separate entities, are inert. 

And then it hits him.

Cocaine users are never able to accurately describe the high they experience, when asked. Generic, trite words stringed together to make sentences are unable to convey the emotions experienced. They say that it’s euphoric, that it provides them with a sense of raw power. Orgasmic, even. But, no word in the English language can truly do justice to the feeling that cocaine racing through the bloodstream brings. 

When asked at the ripe age of twenty-four down at Scotland Yard by a newly appointed Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes said it was like conducting a symphony. He didn’t dare juxtapose cocaine amongst other superfluous things such as sex and money, by saying that it gave him a false sense of control and euphoria. He didn’t try to explain or dilute what he experienced, either. At uni, the only things Sherlock Holmes cared about were science, his violin, and cocaine. However, until three minutes and thirty seconds ago, cocaine was replaced by John. 

Jubilation licks up at him, like a growing fire, until it slowly engulfs him with serotonin-drenched waves. A maniacal grin plays on his face, stretching from cheekbone to cheekbone. The syringe his trembling hands are clenched around is flung into some corner of the gloomy room. 

Power is gushing through his veins, as is cocaine. He has always felt vastly superior to any other human being, but cocaine renders a sense of validation that Sherlock has always secretly craved. Sure, every now and then, John would supply him with one of his “Brilliant!” or “Fantastic, Sherlock!" and he'd be satisfied for the time being. 

But John isn’t here for Sherlock anymore, now is he?

He’s off being wined and dined by some posh wooer. 

Not to mention being fucked, as well. 

Suddenly, the feeling of supremacy is brutally wrenched from him, dissipating as fast it had appeared. No, now Sherlock doesn’t feel powerful. Now he feels millions of questioning, peering eyes focused on him, roving all over his body. He shrieks at the eyes, telling to stop looking at him, to go away. He feels beady, vulture-like monstrosities eyeing him. Utter fear grips him ruthlessly, gushing down on him, nothing like the eternal drizzling that London is famous for. It’s a torrential downpour. 

He pleads in a guttural snarl for someone to save him, to shield him from the imperceptible evil bearing down on him. He pleads for John to come back, to protect him, but abruptly stops because John has returned.

John, in all his threadbare jumper glory, has returned. He heard Sherlock’s cries for help and came to save him. 

Sherlock leaps up to embrace him, and clasp him to his chest. He wants to caress him, to feel his arms around him, to whisper sweet words into his ear. But John takes several steps back, and shakes his head as a solemn expression steals over his tired face. He looks down sadly at his shoes, his fingers fiddling with his striped navy blue and white shirt.

Stepping towards him warily, Sherlock reaches out for him, holding his hand out in the air. He clamps his eyes shut, hoping that John’s hand will soon envelope his. 

He feels warm skin against his palm moments later, and smiles lopsidedly, eyes still closed. But they fly open in horror when he realises that a mellifluous liquid is trickling down his hand.

It’s blood.

The blood is a stark contrast to Sherlock’s skin; he quickly wrings his hand, but the blood smears, tainting his alabaster epidermis with a sickening rust color. He turns his head to look at John, mentally reminding himself where the first aid kit is, so that he can get a plaster for John. 

But a first aid kid isn’t going to help John, especially when he’s drenched in blood from head to toe. 

It ripples down John's skin, tinging the air with a distinct noisome odor. His shirt, his pants, his body, they’re all coated with blood. There’s no source of where it’s coming from. John’s face isn’t exempted, either; the viscous liquid traverses the crevices of John’s face, streaming down his cheeks, pooling in the orifices of his eyes. 

This time, however, it’s John who walks over to Sherlock, who has just retreated frantically into the corner of the flat. He starts whimpering when he sees the impending shadow of John moving closer to him.

John bends down to Sherlock’s level, leans over to his ear. His hot breath ghosts over Sherlock’s ice-cold skin. 

It’s close enough for a kiss.

“All of this, Sherlock,” he murmurs, “All of this isn’t real.”

Those six words are the last thing Sherlock hears before darkness eclipses his vision, and he slumps down to the floor.  

______________________________

Surveying all of this while hunched over on a grainy screen, Jim Moriarty leans back into his leather chair.

He’s pleased.

It amuses him, really. He’d always knew that sooner or later, Sherlock would spiral given the absence of his disillusioned partner. However, he underestimated how little time it would take. It’s always been the same story. Take the alcohol away from an alcoholic, and they’ll need something to substitute it. An alternative. Usually, it’s an equally or even more damaging habit. 

Cheating. Drugs. Stealing.

The usual suspects.

He never thought that he’d develop feelings for John, though. That was an added bonus. His original plan was to kidnap John and savagely harvest his organs, all while luring Sherlock into a trap by holding his precious flatmate hostage. The plan was scrapped the moment he'd felt John's cock shoved up his arse for the first time. 

Sherlock Holmes was a distraction. An irritating one, but a distraction, nonetheless.

However, John  _is_ a distraction. A pleasing, attractive, and far less annoying distraction. A distraction that Jim cares about.

Thoughts racing through his mind, Jim sighs contently, knowing exactly what is going to happen. Sherlock Holmes is going to die.

And by his own hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from "Slow Lights" by Sin Fang.


	6. I'm Just A Crosshair

“Boss!”

That single word floats in and out of John’s hazy mind, the one syllable playing constantly like a broken record. Settling into his ears, it rouses him from his deep slumber. He tries opening his eyes, and immediately shuts them; the emanating light from the hallway temporarily blinds him, and leaves him wincing.

Rolling over, eyes still clamped together as if superglued, he feels around for Jim. His hands clench only fistfuls of clammy sheets; his half-asleep mind dimly registers Jim’s absence Rubbing his eyes and yawning loudly, John looks at the clock placed discreetly on a bedside table, shielding his eyes from the hallway’s light.

7:46 A.M.

He bolts upright, fully awake by now.

A loud crack is heard from John’s back, which leaves him writhing in pain for a few seconds. But the pain is soon forgotten when he realises how late he is.

Oh  _fuck_ , he had promised Sarah that he’d take an early shift at the clinic today. John can’t afford being late or missing work altogether, especially when his job’s already in a precarious position. He’s got fourteen minutes to find his clothes, brush his teeth and comb his hair, bid farewell to Jim, and somehow get down to work, all in one piece. 

Tick, tock. 

He frenziedly looks around for his clothes, but they’re nowhere to be found. The bedroom in itself is pristine, save the mussed bed. Light reflects off the spotless marble floors, which are so meticulously scrubbed that John can see his faint reflection in them. He glances once again at the clock, and swears under his breath. 

Twelve minutes.

Taking a bedsheet and wrapping it around his waist firmly, he ventures into the hallway, intent on finding Jim and asking him where his clothes are. He walks quickly on the heels of his feet, and in his preoccupied state, is unaware of a looming shadow stalking towards him.  
______________________

Sebastian Moran is, put very bluntly, pissed off. His facial features have been stuck in a state of indignation and irritation for five hours, now. He’s itching to reach for his Glock shoved in pocket of his jeans, and blow the brains out of the next person he sees. 

He runs his hands through his hair several times, and tries to calm himself, using techniques he had picked up from two gurus, while on a job in Hyderabad. A pity that by the end of his stay, he’d been forced to poison both of them.

The techniques don’t work.

Partly because Sebastian’s pretty sure that the reason why he’d been forced to kill the gurus was because 90% of what they preached was complete bullshit, and partly because he’s never felt this vexed since Jim had had Sebastian find and skin four cows, make an awful stew out of the hides, and present it to him. Jim had deemed the stew as an abomination, and chucked his bowl at Sebastian.

Perhaps mentally running through his day, and therefore pinpointing the source of frustration, would help.

Here goes nothing.

First, he’s forced to wake up at two in the morning on his ‘day off’, then has to drive all the way down Baker Street from New Addington and supervise a high Sherlock Holmes like a fucking babysitter, for utterly no reason at all, and now, when he’s finally able to return to Jim’s apartment and give him a piece of his mind, he can’t find the sod. 

Nope. He’s still pissed off.

After calling out for Jim and weaving in and out of the numerous rooms of his flat, Sebastian decides to see if the Boss is in his bedroom. Striding down the hallway impatiently, muttering to himself about how he should have gone into the bodyguard business, he stops curtly when he sees a man, of average height, with sandy hair and what appears to be a bedsheet around his midsection walking towards.

For the first time, he’s face-to-face with John Watson.

___________________

John himself is too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice the sniper, until a deep voice reaches his ears. He subconsciously recognises it as the voice that had thankfully woken him up.

Looking up, his own eyes meet hard green ones that are the exact color of emerald. Short, honey-coloured hair adorns the man’s head; John can tell that it’s been cut recently, as a hair tie is still present on the man’s wrist, indicating that he’s still not used to having short hair. The man is dressed casually, wearing a tight tee-shirt and jeans. John can make out the familiar bulge of a handgun in the man’s left pocket. 

Must be one of Jim’s bodyguards , John thinks to himself.

“Sebastian Moran.”

A tanned, calloused hand is thrust out for John to shake. 

Shaking Sebastian’s hand, John replies, “John Watson. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Moran, I have to go down to the clinic and I’m already running quite late, and--”

“So you’re Jim’s new pet, now?” Sebastian cuts him off, eyeing John up and down suspiciously. 

John narrows his eyes. He resents the word ‘pet’ with every fiber of his being. He isn’t Sherlock’s pet, and he certainly isn’t Jim’s pet, either. Thoroughly irritated by now, John tries to brush past Sebastian, but his path is blocked by the hulking figure. 

The two stare at each other viciously for what seems like eons, not saying a single word, until the tense silence is shattered by a familiar Irish voice. 

“Oh, how absolutely brilliant that the two of you have finally met, face to face!” Jim rejoices, clasping his hands together as the corners of his mouth widen an almost abnormal amount. “Well, of course, that’s excluding that one time at the pool.”

John raises his eyebrows. “The pool?” he inquires, but part of him already knows the answer. 

“That red dot plastered on your forehead the entire time was all thanks to the excellent marksmanship of Sebastian,” he explains while buttoning an immaculate opal shirt. His dark hair is still damp, from what John presumes to be a shower. Moving towards John, Jim gives him a sloppy kiss on his unshaven jaw. John flinches noticeably, but he lets Jim’s tongue travel the length of his jaw. Saliva is still left when Jim finally removes his lips. 

“Look, it’s been nice meeting you and all, Sebastian,” John nods in Sebastian’s direction, and offers him a tight-lipped smile, “but I’ve really got to get going because I’m already late for work, so Jim, if you could tell me where my clothes are, I’ll be off.” 

“I already called down to the clinic. Told them you were sick. They’ll be expecting you tomorrow. Come with me into the kitchen, let’s have breakfast. I’m starving” Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Jim turns sharply on his heels, and strolls out of the hallway, leaving John gaping.

“What the hell, Jim? This is my  job we’re talking about, you can’t just go and blatantly lie to them. God, now what am I going to tell them when I finally get to the clinic?” John protests, annoyance colouring his voice. 

“Easy. You’re not going to tell them anything, because you’re not going to work today.”

“I can’t just skive off, because you don’t want me to go!”

Jim turns slowly to look John straight in the eyes. His entire face changes, leaving a cruel mask that reminds John horribly of his father when he was drunk. Rather than shrinking into the corner, as he had done when it was his father he was facing, John draws himself up to his full height and matches Jim’s glare.

“You know,” Jim leers, showing his blinding teeth, “the woman who picked up--Dr. Sarah Sawyer, I believe--she sounded like a very nice lady. It’d be a crying shame if anything happened to her.” He finishes the threat with a smile that seems extremely incongruous for the current situation. 

John’s mind goes blank for a few moments, trying to will himself to believe that Jim did not just threaten Sarah’s life. Jim’s threat reminds him of how fragile life is. One wrong move, and a bullet could be lodged in your head the next minute. 

“Now then, how do you take your eggs? And Sebastian, please wipe that fucking smirk off of your face. It’s unbecoming.” 

John glances at Sebastian and realises that he had been surveying the entire ordeal from the sidelines, with an air of amusement. As if it was all a game to him. John turns to look at Jim, but he’s already gone. The only clue as to where he is, is the sound of light footsteps slowly getting fainter.

John follows them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand.


	7. If I Told You Things I Did Before, Told You How I Used to Be

Birds’ chirping fills the air with high-pitched tweets. The sun’s bright rays splay about the endless sea of soft green that coats the ground. Children are frolicking throughout the park, hand-in-hand, their ever-cautious mothers watching them warily. A handful of wispy clouds are drifting in the sky. 

For once, John Watson feels lost in a sea of normalcy, his feet anchoring him to the ocean floor.

However, the image of a lanky figure, who is grasping a ridiculously large wicker basket and walking towards him, fishes John out of his reverie. 

Groaning, John eyes the basket incredulously. “Really, Jim? A picnic in the park? I thought you were joking.”

Dark, defined eyebrows knit together in genuine confusion. “Isn’t that what normal couples do? Eat dinner, shag each other, go for picnics in the park?”

Muffling his laugh, because by now, John’s learned not to laugh at Jim Moriarty, he realises how truly innocent Jim is, at least in one facet. Every other aspect of him is, of course, corrupt. “Haven’t you realised by now, that amongst the multitude of words that could describe our relationship, ‘normal’ isn’t one of them?” 

His words come out far more vitriolic than intended. John mentally reprimands himself, belaboring the fact that despite their first encounter was four months ago, jibes like the one he has just uttered are off-limits. 

A smile breaks out like sun after a stormy day on Jim’s face, crinkling his eyes, and surprising John. 

Jim doesn’t respond to John’s remark, though, and instead, ungraciously whips out the red checkered blanket peeking out from underneath the basket covers. Airing it out a few times, he sets it on the damp blades of grass. He plonks the basket down on the blanket, and glances at John, silently inviting him to sit down.

They’ve devised a system of communications that has never been talked about to one another, and doesn’t need to. It’s a wordless language, the vocabulary consisting of looks and glances that can be understood only by the other.

John sits down, and wraps his arms around his knees, which are brought up to his chest. Moments later, he feels Jim resting his head on John’s shoulder. Jim’s hair emanates a smell reminiscent of shampoo. John subconsciously blocks out all the external, unnecessary noise cluttering his ears, his brain, his mind, so that all he hears is the solid beating of Jim’s heart. 

Gradually, their taut bodies grow lax, their muscles becoming less and less tense. The tranquil silence is soon interrupted by a rumbling arises from Jim’s stomach, earning a chuckle from John. 

Reaching over to the basket, John paws through a myriad of food before emerging triumphantly with a sandwich for each of them. 

Peanut butter and jam. 

Noshing quietly, John can’t help but feel that he’s been in the same situation before. A feeling of sickening deja vu startles John; he sets his sandwich down and shuts his eyes tightly, childishly hoping that the bad feelings will be somehow warded off.

As usual, they aren’t. 

A reassuring arm pulls him into a warm embrace. 

“Memories of my father,” John says offhandedly, before Jim can ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t need to. “Used to take Harry and me to the park, before he got into all the alcohol. Sometimes we’d have lunch there. But only when it was good weather.”

“What was he like?”

“He--he was a bit of a bastard, to be honest. When Mum left, he was depressed for a short period of time. But we could handle the depression. Then everything went to shit. Each of us had our own vice, our own coping method. Dad turned to drinking, and Harry soon followed suit. I tried to put it all past me, and spent most of my days studying.” John sighs deeply. His entire body swells and deflates.  “I suppose I’ve more than answered your question by now, haven’t I? But there you have it. My sob story. Everyone has one, I guess.” 

It’s quiet for a few more minutes, until Jim responds.

“D’you know why I decided to take you for a picnic in the park, John?” John opens his mouth, about to shoot back with a snarky reply, but Jim continues, “It’s because I never had what you had. I was a rich kid. Precocious, too. And much too devious for anyone’s liking. Spent most of my time in my room, plotting. Mum and Dad hated each other. They hated me. Three days before my fifteenth birthday, they died.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Funnily enough, those were their last words to me, before I had their tongues cut out. Their hearts shortly followed.”

John steals a glance at Jim, and what he sees doesn’t surprise him.

Jim’s got that look in his eyes. 

John can recognise that look from miles away. He’s chased and shot at killers with that look plastered on their face.

Once or twice he’s even seen that look pooling in the depths of his own eyes.

John attempts to untangle himself from Jim’s body, but he’s trapped. Jim’s arms are clenched around him with an ironclad grip.

_____________________________________

Yet another inconspicuous black cab drops John off at 221B. The driver’s shoulders are hunched together, with his hat yanked over his eyes; once again, the cab fare is refused in a low mutter. 

The sky’s a brilliant amber, tinged with streaks of pink here and there. The sun’s is just dipping below the evening’s horizon, almost ready to plunge London into darkness. He can make out two or three stars dotting the sky.

Stepping out of the cab, John curses when the frigid air attacks his body. The light cashmere sweater, a gift from one of his ex-girlfriends at uni, does nothing to protect him from the icy air. The sweater is baggy on him, hiding all the weight he has lost since he returned from Afghanistan. 

He rolls up his sleeves, which keep drooping past his fingers, and searches in the pocket of his jeans until he finds his keys. Opening the door, he trudges up the stairs, one at a time, until he finally reaches the landing. The door to the flat is ajar, and several feeble plinking sounds are heard.

John’s shout fills the flat. “Sherlock!”

“Kitchen,” comes the terse reply. 

He weaves his way to the kitchen, internally groaning when he sees furniture perilously stacked upon one another. He wonders what exactly Sherlock’s been up to this time, and then decides that he’d rather not all the details.

A single lamp lights the kitchen, and is hanging directly above Sherlock’s microscope, through which he is currently peering through.

The sight relieves John. He’d been slightly worried that he was going to come home to a stoned Sherlock Holmes. Remembering how fragile, how tactile Sherlock was when John finally came home that day makes him shudder. John could tell, the way only a doctor could, that it had been hours before Sherlock had injected the cocaine into his system. But the repercussions were still patent. It’s a sight John hopes he’ll never have to witness again. Granted, it  had been four months since, but he didn’t want to take any chances. 

Seeing as Sherlock’s conducting another one of his experiments, rather than traversing throughout the flat like a madman, it’s safe to say that he hasn’t been shooting up cocaine within the past twenty-four hours.

Sherlock’s defined motor skills, lack of perspiration, and calm demeanor are all conducive to John’s assumption. 

Satisfied, John turns to leave before a low baritone catches his attention.

“It’s Mycroft, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and shoots John a Look. “Mycroft is your suitor.

“Wait,  _what_? What the  _hell_?” John splutters. His eyes are the size of dinner plates, eyebrows skyrocketing upwards and threatening to disappear into his sandy hair. “Are you--you’re not on--on drugs, right now, are you?” 

“Don’t ‘ _ what the hell, Sherlock _ ’ me. It was a perfectly sound deduction, despite it having to involve Mycroft, of course. Your suitor is wealthy, male, in his 30s-40s. Obviously you’re either ashamed of him or you don’t want me to meet him, perhaps even both, due to the fact that you have never introduced me to him. Also, you feel the inherent need to impress him, due to the fact that he’s better off financially than you are, seeing as you rarely wear this expensive sweater. Mycroft Holmes, unfortunately, fills all of these requisites. Now, answer the question: Is it Mycroft?”

“No, of course not! God, in what sort of parallel dimension would I be even a trifle attracted to your brother.” Just the very thought of it makes John physically convulse. His hands cover his face, and he groans in disgust several times.

“Stop the histrionics, John. Also, do you know that your clothing and your body, both positively reek of Clive Christian cologne? My olfactory senses are being attacked in every possible way.”

John’s gotten used to smelling Jim’s ostentatious, overbearing cologne. Usually when him and Jim were that close, they were naked, and John had always been able to take a shower and scrupulously scrub himself afterwards, so the odor had never been a problem. This time, they were both fully clothed, John in a sweater and jeans, and Jim dressed impeccably in a dress shirt and trousers.

He throws up his hands in mock defeat. “Alright, I get the hint. I stink. I’m going to go take a shower. Try not to blow up anything while I’m gone.”  
_____________________________

Once John leaves the kitchen, Sherlock lets loose a miniscule sigh of relief. He rubs his eyes several times, his eyesight having been distorted by staring into a microscope, inspecting samples, for several hours. Shoving the microscope aside, he props his head on his spindly fingers and proceeds to Think.

Regular thinking isn’t the same as Thinking. People think all the time, but Sherlock Holmes does not think. 

He knows.

But when he does think, it’s always Thinking. He Thinks of people, he Thinks of feelings. He Thinks of things and concepts that are entirely foreign to him. 

It seems today that Thinking is looped completely on one Thought:

_ Thank God it isn’t Mycroft. _

Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to suffer through that disaster of a relationship. And he couldn’t even begin to imagine the Christmas dinners.

Those six words are like a mantra, drifting in and out of his mind, ingraining itself, pounding like a snare drum, leaving no hollow spaces in his head. 

One small Thought manages to break through the monotonous chant:

_ Why was John given a gun? _

_____________________________

Hurrying, almost with a sense of urgency, John enters his room, and sets the box Jim gave him on his bed.

_ Right before John enters the taxi, Jim hands him a box. It’s a stark mahogany color, and the contents feels slightly heavy. It’s a familiar weight, though John can’t place where the familiarity is from.  _

_ Jim leans toward John, and whispers, “Don’t open it until you get home. And try not to show it to You-Know-Who.” Taking an advantage of their proximity, he gives John a peck on his neck and opens the cab’s door. _

He had wanted to open it during the cab ride home, but he could feel the driver’s eyes trained on him; besides, he didn’t want to disobey Jim in any way. Once in the flat, he had set it down on the sofa, and went to check on Sherlock.

Opening the lid carefully, the object, lying on a bed of plush velvet, greets him.

It’s a gun.

More specifically, it’s a Sig Sauer P220 Carry.

He cautiously picks it up, running his fingers along the length of it. He inspects the gun, looping his index finger through the trigger and aiming the muzzle at a pillow. It feels right in his hands. The gun is like an extra appendage of his body, just as whole and alive as his fingers, his legs, his heart. 

But why would Jim have gifted him a gun?

Unless.

It’s almost as if John’s been given a way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn, and John. Sorry for taking so long to update.


	8. No Rivers and No Lakes Can Put the Fire Out

“I have a cunning plan--”

“Shut up, Baldrick.” Three voices chorus in unison; one is gravelly, exhausted from a long day at work, another is a slightly nasal contralto, that has spoken only five sentences today, and the last voice is Rowan Atkinson’s.

The television is currently showing _Black Adder_ , featuring a scantily clad Edmund Blackadder scheming in the future. It’s the Christmas special, one episode which John and Sherlock have watched countless times. But it’s the holiday season again, and John would rather not spend it like they had done the last.

He wonders what’s happened to Irene. Every now and then, a fleeting thought of her enters his mind, dredging up old feelings, laced with resentment and envy. The only person to get as close to Sherlock as he has, if not even closer.

His mobile pings.

_You have one new message!_

He clicks ‘view message’.

_Concert tonight. Taxi outside at 20:30. -Seb_

Jim’s been using Sebastian as a middleman for his and John’s communication. He had said something or the other about his phone line being compromised; John hadn’t been listening very well, preoccupied with a wandering hand that was slowly getting near his pants.

John checks his watch. It’s ten minutes to eight. He gets up, smoothing out the creases that have accumulated on his clothes. Brushing off dust from his shirt, John trudges to his bedroom, walking only two steps before a warm gangly hand shoots out and grips his wrist.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock sniffles, his question being followed by several conspicuous racking coughs.

John sighs exasperatedly. He isn’t in the mood to pander to Sherlock’s whims tonight. “On a date.”

“Well, _obviously_. You’ve got that stupid grin on your face, there’s a spring in your step despite a tiring day at the clinic, and you’ve recently clipped your nails. I’m not an imbecile,” he scoffs, pausing to blow his nose. “What I meant to say was, why are you going out and leaving me here to fend for myself when I’m afflicted with a debilitating malady?”

“You’ve only got a fever, with a temperature of 38 degrees Celsius. Perhaps a cold, as well, though I suspect a majority of your coughing has been manufactured solely to keep me caring for you. Serves you right though, for meandering around London in the horrid rain at ungodly hours in the night, and dragging me along with you. I’m surprised you haven’t got pneumonia, to be honest.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and a steely glint appears in them. Nose pointed up in the air and jaw set, he locks eyes with John. His unyielding gaze is cruel.

“I don’t care how much of that ‘dark sociopathic detective’ crap you try with me. I’m going, and that’s final. You’re thirty-two years old, you can take care of yourself.” John breaks eye contact and marches to the stairs.

“Please don’t leave me.” Sherlock’s silken murmur reaches John’s ears as he ascends the third step.

He pretends not to hear it, and goes upstairs.

Sherlock is left wondering how exactly he’s ever gotten to this point in his life.  
_______________________________

_It’s their six month anniversary.  
_

_John’s going on another date with_ him _.  
_

_Whoever the man is, he’s a lucky bastard.  
_

The man _.  
_

_How can he not know who it is?  
_

_How can his skills fail him at a time like this?  
_

_He’s the only consulting detective in the entire world, and yet, he can’t even deduce whom his flatmate has been going out with for the past six months.  
_

_Sherlock groans in aggravation. It comes out as a mangled cry, wrought with sorrow and woe. He combs through his brain, fact by fact, looking for some clue, some inkling, when--  
_

_“I’m off, Sherlock!”  
_

_John comes bounding down the stairs, two at a time, like a hyper teenage girl. He’s clad exquisitely in a sophisticated suit that accentuates the contours of his body, broadening his shoulders and hugging him snugly around the hips. Sherlock wonders if John would ever wear a suit for him, if he asked him to._

_An outlandish grin overtakes John’s face, but is incongruous with the faint worry in his eyes. He’s clutching a small box with a bow adorning the lid, presumably a gift. The exchange of presents on anniversaries must be another one of those social dictations for relationships._

_Sherlock deduces that a book is inside._

_A book?_

_Must have some sort of sentimental value, or be an inside joke._

_At least that’s what those inane dating websites say._

_By the time he decides that John wouldn’t mind him asking about what value the book holds, John is gone, leaving Sherlock writhing in envy._  
_____________________________  


 _Before_ the man _, Sherlock rarely Thought about sex.  
_

_Now, it’s always lurking in the back of his mind, taunting him sensuously.  
_

_He remembers the first time sex crossed his mind. John had been wearing a shirt that barely covered his torso. Stretching out his arms, the shirt had ridden up, giving Sherlock a glimpse of a pale stomach, which still retained its figure from the military.  
_

_Sherlock had seen stomachs before, most of them on corpses at St. Bart’s, or at crime scenes. But this stomach was different. This was John’s stomach.  
_

_The glimpse was the match that started the long-dormant fire.  
_

_That was three weeks ago, and Sherlock’s fixation with John’s body hasn’t gotten any better. If anything, his craving for John has increased exponentially, leaving him aching with want.  
_

_He wants to smash his lips against_ John’s _, to feel himself inside_ John _, to lay with_ John _basking in post-coital bliss. He wants to figure out_ John’s _kinks, he wants to know what_ he _likes and what_ he _doesn’t like, he wants to see J_ ohn _in all his glory. He wants to explore every crevice of_ John _, every follicle, every limb, claw his hands on_ John’s _chest, run his fingers through_ John’s _flaxen hair, be intimate with_ John _in ways only_ the man _has._  
_________________________  


_John’s making breakfast for the two of them. It’s a normal Saturday morning, the ones that Sherlock abhors with a burning passion. Normal Saturday mornings contain nothing to do, except watching those stupid cartoons and eating breakfast._

_Sherlock’s sitting at the kitchen table, which is free of the usual debris cluttering it, for once. Sifting through the newspaper, the enticing silhouette of John catches his eye, distracting him from an intriguing obituary that he might possibly pester Lestrade about.  
_

_John fishes out a box of cereal from the cabinet. Setting it down on the table, alongside a carton of milk, he munches on a piece of toast slathered in Marmite.  
_

_The very smell of Marmite sickens Sherlock, but he’ll endure it, if it means being with John. He delves back into the newspaper, intent on finding out what havoc Mycroft has wreaked today. By the time he has finished (a rebellion in a third-world country, several major corporations’ stocks plummeting, and the election of a Senator in the States), he finds a bowl filled to the brim with cereal and milk placed in front of him.  
_

_“Eat,” commands John, who is doing just that.  
_

_“I don’t need--” Sherlock is cut off by a skeptical eyebrow that knows that it has been seventeen hours since he has consumed anything.  
_

_Without further prompting, he digs in, sloppily, the milk often swishing dangerously close to the edge of the bowl.  
_

_Abruptly, John breaks out in peals of laughter. “You look like a squirrel with its face stuffed with acorns,” he chortles.  
_

_Sherlock only smiles in response, unable to shoot a caustic retort without choking.  
_

_Moments later, the flat plunges back into silence.  
_

_It’s not the awkward silence that Sherlock often encounters with strangers who aren’t used to him. It’s the lazy sort of silence, that one that involves only him and John.  
_

_Sherlock likes idle Saturday mornings now._  
________________________________  


_It’s a dreary evening. Rain is pouring outside, and the two residents of 221B are just coming in, drenched to the bone.  
_

_Another couple of hours spent chasing a criminal, except this time, Sherlock had managed to tackle said criminal while John trained his gun on the accomplice. After persuading Sherlock that they had to call Scotland Yard, no matter how low the IQ of some of its workforce was, John phoned Lestrade, and they waited in the downpour, until he had come down to the scene with his police cars and whatnot, and they were free to go home.  
_

_The taxi ride home was prolonged, thanks to the hideous traffic, and the taxi’s heater did nothing to help the two shivering men. Once inside the building, John races up the stairs to his room, taking off his jumper and his shirt along with it, eager to be rid of the waterlogged clothing.  
_

_Sherlock follows John, but what he sees on John’s back stops him in his tracks.  
_

_Welts and red marks crisscross his back, traveling all over, forming intricate patterns. The jumbled mess of welts are recent. One of them is engraved directly on John’s spine._

_Sherlock winces. That must have hurt.  
_

_His mind supplies him with the information of when, how, why, and what those marks are, whether or not he wants it to.  
_

_“John,” Sherlock calls out.  
_

_“Yeah?”  
_

_“What exactly are those marks on your back?” he asks calmly.  
_

_The calm before the storm.  
_

_John stops, too. “What are you--” he turns his head to look, “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, it’s nothing, really, it’s just--”  
_

_Rage overwhelms Sherlock. It’s difficult for him to see straight. His fists are balled into fists, his nails viciously digging into his palms, and his eyes are wide open, blazing with pure fury. “_ A whip _, John? Who did_ this _to you? ‘_ It’s nothing _’? Are you so stupid, as to be incapable of realising the full implications of what_ the man _is doing to you?” Sherlock bellows.  
_

 _“Look here, Sherlock. What_ I _do with my sex life is_ none _of your business. I appreciate the concern, no matter how misplaced,” John hisses between clenched teeth, “But I can take care of myself well enough, without you needing to get involved.” And with that, he storms upstairs.  
_

_Sherlock still can’t get past the fact that he saw whip marks on John’s back.  
_

_The John Watson Sherlock knows wouldn’t let himself be willingly whipped.  
_

_But then again, does Sherlock Holmes really know John Watson?_  
____________________________________  


_They’re eating dinner at Angelo’s again. Neither of them feel up to the task of cooking. It’s the night after the whip incident.  
_

_When they enter, Angelo hands them both menus and furtively gives Sherlock a knowing smile, not unlike the one he gave him the night John killed the cabbie. This time, it leaves pangs of sadness resonating through him, instead of annoyance.  
_

_They have no need for the menus, though. Both of them always order the same thing when they eat at Angelo’s.  
_

_John orders the spaghetti, Sherlock the filet mignon.  
_

_Whenever they go out for dinner or lunch, they always play the same game. Sherlock deduces information about the patrons of the restaurant, and John pretends to be irritated that Sherlock is showing off, but secretly enjoys it._

_Especially when it’s a particularly scandalous deduction.  
_

_Sherlock can tell the life story of any person in this restaurant. He doesn’t need to speculate or guess at facts. But other people do.  
_

_He inspects John, who is sitting before him, eyes closed, contemplating something that Sherlock can’t deduce. John is leaned back into his chair, creating a rift between Sherlock and him that Sherlock despondently wants to close.  
_

_How do him and John look like to everyone else in the restaurant at the moment?  
_

_Friends?  
_

_Relatives?  
_

_A couple?  
_

_He desperately wishes it is the latter._  
__________________________________  


_Sherlock loves going out in public with John at his side.  
_

_It puts a smile on his face, one he isn’t apt to display.  
_

_He loves showing John off to others, smugly enjoying their shocked reactions when they learn that Sherlock Holmes has made a friend.  
_

_A friend as attractive, as normal, as radiant, as good as John.  
_

_Sherlock is tinkering around the laboratory at St. Bart’s, with John cautiously supervising him. Molly wouldn’t let him stay, otherwise. He’s just about to begin dissecting the outer mitochondrial membrane of a strain of a pathogen for a case, when the door opens, announcing a visitor.  
_

_He looks up and sees a tanned man, with dark brown hair and piercing grey eyes that used to make all the girls from Sherlock’s uni swoon. The man is wearing a dark polo over jeans, and flashes Sherlock a smile, displaying his alabaster teeth.  
_

_“Hello, Victor,” says Sherlock, slowly peeling off his gloves, which stick to him like a second skin. “What brings you here?”  
_

_“Heard you were in the detective business now. I require help with a delicate, ah, problem that needs to be taken care of.”  
_

_“If you need a person murdered, ask Mycroft. If you need me to help you with a case, then try not to sound like you’re in The Godfather.”  
_

_Victor only chuckles in response, his laughter booming. “And who is this, might I ask?” He gestures to John in a perfunctory manner.  
_

_“This, Victor,” Sherlock shrugs off his lab coat and strides complacently over to John, smiling the entire time, “is Doctor John Watson.”_  
___________________________  


_It starts off as a nice evening.  
_

_John has brought home wine that he’d picked up on his way home from work, and Sherlock has just solved another case. For once, there are good shows on the telly, instead of the usual drivel. The weather is clear, and the stars are scintillating in the dark night sky.  
_

_They talk and they drink and they eat, overindulging on the company of the other, sidling up to each other and laughing hysterically.  
_

_Neither of them are angry drunks, or else the night would have ended on a much more sour note.  
_

_Mrs. Hudson is, thankfully, over at Mrs. Turner’s, no doubt exchanging recipes for Yorkshire pudding._

_Up to this point, all they have been doing is gorging themselves on wine and food, while watching television.  
_

_But suddenly, everything comes crashing down on Sherlock, when John Watson presses his lips against Sherlock’s. John smells wonderful, and the very presence of him and what he is doing infiltrates Sherlock’s senses, leaving him dumbstruck. Primal instincts overtake him, leaving his mind in the dust, and Sherlock caresses John, entangling himself in the doctor’s limbs.  
_

_The realisation hits Sherlock like a bullet train, stealthy and powerful, and he breaks the kiss, with a horrified expression on his face.  
_

_He has indulged in too much._  
____________________________________

John ransacks his closet, hellbent on finding the suit he wore for his and Jim’s anniversary. Jim had told him that it looked gorgeous that night, and promptly proceeded to rip it off of him. Combing through various articles of clothing, old picture frames of him and Harry, and his old military fatigues, John comes across the Sig Sauer Jim gave him.

It’s still in the box and hasn’t been taken out since.

Relegating it to the far corner of his closet, John finally finds the suit. It’s some Italian brand that John has never heard of, and costs more than three months’ salary. Stripping off his old clothes, he puts on the suit, making sure to button the cuffs properly.

He didn’t want what happened the last time he didn’t correctly button his cuffs to occur again.

A twinge of guilt overcomes him as he straightens out his tie, looking at himself in the mirror. Perhaps he really should stay with Sherlock. He may not be that sick, but he’s probably feeling down in the dumps, being alone during the holiday season, this time without John _or_ Irene.

Screw that.

Sherlock will be able to survive one night. Just one night. That’s it.

He glances at his watch, a gift from Molly on his birthday. It’s 8:30, on the dot. Walking over to the window of his room overlooking the street below, he sees yet another taxi.

John should have gotten Jim a miniature toy taxi, instead of a copy of _The Divine Comedy_ , for their six month anniversary. He laughs lightly, and goes downstairs to check on Sherlock, before leaving for the concert.

Once in the room, he sees Sherlock draped across the sofa, his fingers steepled and partially covering his face.

Contented, John walks out, calling behind him, “Don’t wait up for me! Be safe and if you’re going to bring in any severed body parts, put them on the top shelf of the refrigerator, not the middle one.”

“John.” Sherlock responds with a single word.

John would have ignored it and raced down the steps, but the heavy urgency the single syllable carried made him turn, and walk back to Sherlock.

His eyes are wide open, the color of a bleak stormy sea.

“Please sit down.”

He does as he is told, and sits in an armchair.

Sitting up, Sherlock interlaces his fingers and places them on his knees, which are drawn up to his chest. “John Watson,” he begins, clearing his throat, “John Watson, I have something to say to you. It’s not something I’ve ever said before, and it’s clearly not something that I have experienced before.”

John furrows his eyebrows. Utterly nothing would have prepared him for what Sherlock Holmes was going to say next.

“I love you.”

Sarcastic laughter breaks the pregnant pause following those three words. “Is this some sort of sick joke, Sherlock? Did Anderson tell you to say this to me?”

Shock, then indignance occupies Sherlock’s face. “No, of course not! John Watson, I--I love you from the depths of my heart. I want to care for you and love you and spend the rest of my days with--”

“You’re--you’re being serious then, Sherlock?” A nod from him prompts John to continue. “Well, ah, I’m not really sure how to go about this. You see, Sherlock, I loved you. I still do. But as, erm, a friend. Or a brother. I used to feel the same way about you, but, well, now that sort of feeling is, er, directed towards someone else. So yeah. Sorry. I’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon, at the very latest.”

John leaves the flat, feeling overwhelmingly triumphant.

It sickens him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from "Seven Devils" by Florence + the Machine. Listening to the song has definitely inspired a lot in this chapter.


	9. Well, You Can't Be a Pimp and a Prostitute, Too

Every now and then, John tries juxtaposing his relationship with Jim to some sort of paradigm of everything a relationship entails, of what a real one is supposed to be. Romeo and Juliet? Nope, that relationship is one of the few that’s more fucked up than the one he’s currently involved in. Kirk and Spock? Neither Jim or John can pilot a starship like the  _USS Enterprise_ _._ His parents? Dear God, no.

Moments afterwards, the psychology class he’d been forced to take during university kicks in, and relentlessly reminds him that what he’s doing is born from insecurity, from fear that  _this_ is not what he wants. 

It dawns on him that a small part of him is scared.

________________________________

Jim isn’t sure whether or not this is a new thing for him.

Caring.

Love.

Emotions.

No, Jim had emotions before he met John. 

Anger, disgust, superiority. 

Superiority wasn’t much of an emotion, rather than a birthright, to be honest. How could one not feel supercilious when they’ve got a genius-level I.Q. and orchestrate more than half the world’s crime?

But, after John has entered his life, he possesses happiness, complacence, guilt. Diluted, filtered forms they may be, but still.

How else to explain the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles at the sight of John? The leaps his heart takes when John moves closer to him, kisses him, caresses him, ravishes him? The tiny, miniscule, yet present, flickers of shame at the bottom of his stomach when he knows John is disappointed in him?

Jim is quite gratified with his relationship with John. The knowledge that someone in this world deeply cares for you and enjoys spending time with you, along with the emotions that it brings with, is incredibly addictive. Potently so. 

He especially admires John’s defiance, that is always lurking, waiting to bite Jim if he gets too controlling.

Maudlin, foolish lovers are an utter bore. Manipulate them, take what you need from them, manipulate them some more, and now you can leave whenever you want to. They’ll be head over heels for you the entire time, won’t notice a thing. Completely textbook stuff.

The only time John’s trademark audacity is absent, is during sex. 

He seems to morph into a lump of clay, malleable and able to mold into whatever form or shape is needed.

Fortunately enough for the two of them, tonight, that changes.

_________________________________

John rushes down the steps, the feeling of euphoria still tumbling inside of him. Mostly due to the fact that he gets to see Jim once more; but deep down, a small part of it is due to what Sherlock has just told him. 

One word keeps circling in his mind.

_Validation._

That’s imbecilic. John doesn’t need to be validated by anything or anyone but himself. But he can’t ignore the cloying sense of accomplishment, the fact that the ‘great Sherlock Holmes’ the one that told him on their very first night with each other  _married to my work_ , the one that seemed so  detached from human, complicated, messy things like sentiments and heartbreak and love. 

Opening the door that leads out to the street, John gives himself a brisk onceover, and satisfied, firmly shuts it behind him. The sky is pitch black despite it being only eight at night, the norm for the last months of the year. Streetlamps illuminate the night, washing Baker Street in a translucent glow.

Walking to the idling taxi, John trips on the laces of his left shoe, and mentally swears. A faint blush tinges his cheeks, and Jim is still cackling by the time he opens the door and sits down.

“Shut up,” John mutters in an irritated manner that doesn’t match with the affectionate kiss he plants on Jim’s lips. They’re soft, and feel ethereal. 

He takes a good look at Jim, drinking in the sight of him like an alcoholic. He’s dressed similarly to John, decked in an austere black suit that is almost as dark as his hair, which is parted to the side and curls over his alabaster face. Looking upto his eyes, John finds Jim’s eyes meeting his, and they gaze at each other for a single moment.

With a whir of the engine, the taxi speeds out of Baker Street, only to be met with standstill traffic that makes John wonder at the back of his mind what the hell Mycroft Holmes has done now. Neither of them mind, or at least show it, however, as the time is spent in satiated silence, embracing one another, offering small kisses, smiling into skin, humming unintelligible verses that occupy the heavy air.

Finally, the taxi halts to a stop, its windows displaying an ornate building. The facade is Gothic, with stately flying buttresses and grand arches overlooking passerby. Multicoloured stained glass windows on thick, intimidating doors welcome the couple inside. 

They meander around the building through faintly lighted hallways with dark wooden floors, each unsure of where exactly the concert is being held, until they come across a grand oak door from which several drawn out appoggiaturas emanate.

Slinking inside, and trying to discreetly take their seats, which fails because their seats are located smack in the middle of the front row, the late pair sit down, auditory senses being bombarded with the whines and clangs and tunes of a full orchestra.

_________________________________

John’s in awe of the current song. An aching, complex violin solo is reaching out to his ears. This song is unlike the others, which are lighthearted and reminiscent of days spent frolicking in parks and being forced to nap afterwards. This one is painfully bittersweet, tugging at his heart. He leans over to Jim and whispers in a hushed tone, “What’s the name of this song?”

“It’s called ‘Sonata Varsávia’. By Paganini. The entire concert is comprised of his pieces. This one, however, is one of his lesser known works,” Jim replies loudly, earning scathing looks from those sitting around them and several ‘ _ shh! _ _’_ s.

The name Paganini registers clearly in John’s mind; a distinct memory of Sherlock playing ‘Caprice No. 24’ is dragged from the depths of his brain. It was the morning after a particularly sadistic case, that John has been trying to forget to this very day. That was one of the cases that he’d never blogged about.

John sinks back into his chair, folding his arms across his chest, and screwing his eyes shut, blocking out all external distractions, hoping to be plunged back into the music.  
_________________________________

Thunderous applause erupts, waking John from his music-induced trance. He’d been enjoying the moments of peace it gave him, being able to concentrate solely on caprices and sonatas, whose effects are still resonating throughout his body. Opening his eyes abruptly, he stands up, taking care to smooth out the rumples of his suit, and begins clapping along with the rest of the audience, until the din dies and down, and people begin to make their way out the doors, everyone returning back to their own little worlds, unified by Paganini for a mere two hours.

An arm slithers around his waist. Jim’s, of course. Turning back, John realises just how big the audience is, an enormous throng of suits and dresses and monocles and ridiculous hats. The line outside moves slowly, and the two of them are stuck behind a waddling mustachioed man, with a pince-nez adorning his face and beady eyes that dart around, inspecting whomever or whatever they come across.

Eventually, the hall clears up, and people are able to move with ease. The two make their way outside, walking in unison. Left, right, left, right. 

“Cab waiting outside?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you use cabs all the time?"

“They’re inconspicuous. Everyone uses them, naively trusting their driver to take them safely to wherever they have to go. Besides, a Rolls-Royce would be rather ostentatious to most of the places I have to go.”

“Which are?”

“Children’s birthday parties. I have a part-time job as a clown.”

John softly kicks him, laughing, almost in exasperation.

“Did you  _really_ think I’d tell you?” Jim snickers, checking his watch. “Where is that damn taxi? He should have been here by the time we got out.” His sentence is punctuated by several shivers from the biting air. 

John’s more than used to the air, by now. The blistering heat of Afghanistan’s days were a stark contrast to its freezing nights. He’s also been spending too many nights in London traversing through the streets in hopes of catching another maniac, as well.

Jim latches onto John’s body, arms encircling his torso, one leg wrapped around his, leeching body heat off of him. John knows this trick. Hell, he’s used this trick. “Really, Jim? Not bringing a coat on purpose? Seems rather childish of you.”

“I have absolutely no idea of what you’re talking about.”

Before John can pursue the subject further, the taxi pulls up, neatly stopping by the curb in front of them. Disentangling himself from John, Jim opens the door, inviting him inside. 

The ride to Jim’s flat is warm, wet, and sloppy. The minute the taxi starts moving again, Jim pounces on John, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, hooking his thumbs into the sides of his trousers, and viciously murmuring  _I want you_ , _now_ ,  over and over, while depositing moist kisses up and down John’s neck.

“Not here,” John manages to say, in between stifled moans, “not in the cab. There’s another fucking person here, for Christ’s sake.”    


John’s words do nothing to deter Jim’s libido, as the moans and gasps and  oh! s continue to emit from the backseat. The taxi driver looks straight ahead, trying to ignore the blush creeping up on his cheeks.  
______________________________

Jim always tops.

It’s an unspoken rule.

One of the many.

The only exception to the rule was their first time together, that night at Jim’s flat.

Tonight is sort of like that night, in the way that angst, heartbreak, and self-realisations are found in abundance.   
__________________________

Jim is toeing his shoes off, fully naked, by the time John, who’s still wearing his mussed clothes, takes control. 

The flat is drenched in darkness; not a single light is turned on.

John stalks forward, and kisses Jim forcefully, stroking his erect cock with damp hands. Jim’s hands lay idle at his sides, limp and lifeless. He’s surprised. He’s never seen this side of John before. He grasps the lapels of John’s suit, not questioning the man ( _whatwhyhowwhen_ ) in any way .  The trust between the two has grown enough to support that. 

Beaded sweat drips off of John’s forehead onto Jim’s bare chest. The touch, the feel, the intimacy of their bodies is electric, sending pangs of arousal, of  want , throughout Jim.     


John growls, “Get on the bed.”

He immediately complies, positioning himself so that he is propped up on his elbows. He feels oddly vulnerable, sitting on a bed like this, naked, while his lover is finally shimmying out of his own clothes. But he doesn’t mind. In fact, he likes it. He craves it. It’s a feeling that has to be explained, needs to be explained, but is, in itself, inexplicable.

Soon, however, Jim is rewarded by John’s cock entering him, moving fluidly inside him. His pants are in time with John’s thrusts, and he sees colours and flashes and explosions all coalescing, imploding, augmenting while his knuckles whiten, almost resembling the same colour as the previously pristine sheets..

A single short moans escapes from John’s lips, which have been silent up until now.

Suddenly, everything goes black, Jim’s body roaring with finality, his pupils blown wide open, and the constant drumming sound that has been present to this very second since the start being abruptly curtailed.

He can feel John coming, inside of him, a piercing shout signalling his orgasm,  and in that moment, that single syllable of time, they are stripped away of anything else, unrefined, bonded together, whole.

_______________________________________

John’s eyes close and snap open, an action that’s been repeated for hundreds of times within the past hour. Sleep is gnawing at him, his eyelids are drooping, but the thoughts swirling inside of his head are whirring too fast, they’re too important, too  vital , for him to ignore them and nod off. His arms are shuddering. Teeth chattering. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins, goosebumps traveling up and down his body.

This is the first time  _this_ has happened. 

_This_ meaning John staying awake after sex rather than sleeping, John being on top, John taking control.

 _This_ is John Hamish Watson, who is finally getting the sleep he’s been craving, an expanse laced with dreams awaiting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from 'Icky Thump' by the White Stripes.


	10. We Sleep Until The Sun Goes Down

_“John. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.”_

An audible groan of frustration is let out.

“Nope, Jim. That’s not convincing enough.”

_“I’m incredibly disappointed in myself, John, you’ve got to believe me.”_

“Fuck no, still sounds like a line from one of those dreadful chick flicks.”

_“I never meant for this to happen, John, I swear.”_

“Still--not--fucking--heartfelt.” Each of Jim’s words are punctuated by another stab wound tearing open his poor victim’s tainted body.    

A hazy, naked bulb lights the room. It flickers every now and then, temporarily cloaking the evidence of Jim’s trademark therapy sessions in darkness.

The woman has been dead four, five hours now. Her blond hair is caked with blood, colouring it a mottled brown. Black on grey, mascara streaks her pale face, silently revealing her cries for mercy as she was held at gunpoint and stuffed into the trunk of an inconspicuous black taxi. The entire corpse is as stiff as a board, undergoing rigor mortis, which set in when Jim had finally gotten around to confessing his crime.

It had taken a full hour for him to start thinking about how he would atone for it.

The stabs quicken as Jim’s patience wears out.

________________________

The only sound floating throughout the flat is the steady clacking of Sherlock’s nimble fingers clacking rapidly against his computer’s keyboard.

It’s early in the morning, at least for him. He clutches a steaming cup of tea, hoping to thoroughly wake himself up after a whole four hours of sleep from last night.

He rarely rests that long in one stretch, often catching an hour or two sporadically during the week. But, he deserves it, really. After opening himself up to the one person he had thought worthy and getting, albeit softly, rejected, the last thing he wants to do is face the world. Or worse, much worse--himself.

Opening up Safari, he scans the news the incompetent early morning reports had to offer him. He had predicted the occurrence of most of the headlines’ events, weeks before they actually happened. It used to be an ongoing game between him and John, Sherlock reciting his predictions and John verifying their validity with either a raucous laugh accompanied by a quirk of his eyebrows, or an Amazing! But those quiet mornings are long gone, substituted with lonely awakenings and a single cup of coffee.

He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair several times, trying to rid himself of those memories. They only serve to cloud his mind.

Sherlock returns to the reports, a disdainful expression twisting his face.The world is so utterly boring without John; he’s the only person in the flat who would care about a shark attack in the Pacific, or a new warehouse for some Italian product, or a rigged election in the Middle East.

He goes on to check his email, dimly wishing for a new case. He doesn’t get his hopes up, though; there are no new messages on his phone, and Lestrade is still waiting for his input on an ongoing ‘case’, though only a monkey with an IQ of 95 could call it that.

_It’s the doorman, he has lupus._

He could easily text Lestrade that information, relieve him of the stress that probably kept him up all night. But he won’t.

It’s nice to feel wanted.

A primitive desire, yes, but what good is being a genius without having an audience?

Besides, in approximately three hours and twenty-four minutes from now, Lestrade will have discovered the red, scaly patches of skin that will lead him towards said doorman. ‘Solving’ the case will give him that extra boost of confidence that he needs, anyways. His last shouting match with his ex-wife had more verbal abuse directed at him than he’d care to admit.

He scrolls down his inbox, eyes skipping the usual drivel that festered in his email. They usually went something along the lines of:

_“Mr. Holmes, I’ve heard you’re the best and I need you to---”_

_“Here’s my chemistry homework, it’s due tomorrow---”_

_“Are you and John Watson dating, because---”_

Sherlock rechecks his unread mail, gradually becoming more desperate for a distraction. All of senders’ emails are foreign to him, most of them carrying the undertones of being created at the age of nine. He groans, and rechecks his inbox for the last time he’ll allow himself, before wandering off and rereading John’s old medical textbooks.

It’s almost as if some archaic god has yielded to Sherlock’s wishes, because a new email is waiting for him. His eyes skip the empty subject line, and his cursor almost wanders over to the delete button, but the address catches his eye.

_[jim@consultingcriminal.uk](mailto:jim@consultingcriminal.uk) _

The blatant email address itself flamboyantly informs Sherlock of who it is.

Moriarty has come out to play.

Leaning back as far as his chair will allow, he cracks his knuckles, anticipation coursing through his veins. A triumphant smirk twists his face.

________________________

A scream of agony rips through Jim’s frame, as he wails in irritation.

He stalks up and down the confined space, taking care not to step on the dead woman occupying the center of the room. Dragging his hands through his greasy, sweat-slicken hair, he stops, unable to find an answer.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

One of, if not the only, good things of his life, and he goes and fucks it all up.

“Great, Jim. Absolutely fucking peachy,” he sarcastically mutters to himself. Three hours ago, when the woman was in the last stages of her brutal death, Jim had briefly considered keeping her alive, talking to her, using her as a soundboard to bounce ideas off of. A twinge of regret rings through him as he contemplates that decision, but he quickly throws that notion out the window when he remembers the distinct, valley-girl accent her cries for help had beem coated in.

But that part of him, the one he’s been trying to repress for so long, the one that lands him into this utter mess in the first place, leads to him murdering the woman. What is-- _was_ her name? Abigail something? It doesn’t matter anymore. All she is now is another statistic, another one of Jim Moriarty’s numerous victims. The only thing different, that sets her apart from the rest of them is the reason behind her gruesome death.

He returns to trying to think of ways to apologise to John, to somehow rectify this humongous debacle he has created. The only possible alternatives to letting nature take its course and subsequently apologising to John, would only do more harm than good.

Perhaps only apologising _(I’msorryI’msorryI’msoveryfuckingsorry)_ will convince John of his guilt?

No.

It’s not good enough.

Nothing is good enough, at this point so far along in the game. Nothing is good enough when it comes to John Watson.

Coherent thoughts can’t truly express how Jim is feeling right now, so he resorts to actions.

________________________

Sherlock is apprehensive when opening the email, slowly clicking the line of text that allows him to read Jim’s message. It’s five words:

_Sorry for the bad quality x_

His eyes wander to the file that is attached to the email. It’s an mp4 file; a video. Gingerly opening the file, he’s relieved to see that none of the security software installed on the computer is alerting him of potential malware or viruses. He makes a mental note to only mildly insult Mycroft the next time he sees him as thanks for the standard government-issued software..

Sherlock is greeted with what appears to be security camera footage, taken last night, judging by the timestamp in the upper right hand corner. The video is playing faster than the actual footage taken place, the numbers racing quicker than the minute hand of the clock in the kitchen.

It’s not in black and white, unlike most security cameras present in public places. The majority of the bedroom seen in the video is white, excluding the slits of colour from the spines of books sitting on the bookshelf.

He’s startled when he can hear moans and shouts emanating from his laptop; unless he’s finally going mental, there’s audio as well.

The miniscule seed of doubt inside Sherlock’s brain blossoms into a tumor.

Bursting in through a door, two men, half-dressed, engaged in a frantic liplock. One is raven-haired and the other is blonde, and the two seem so close, so achingly familiar, that it almosts tears Sherlock’s non-existent heart into thousands of tiny little pieces when he realises who they exactly are.

“I’ve made a huge mistake.”

________________________

A strident beeping noise sounds from Jim’s phone. His (also nonexistent) heart drops.

_File has been viewed_.

He wishes that he could have been there to see Sherlock view the video, to leer at him, laugh at him, remind him of who’s coming out on top here. (Figuratively, of course; last night’s events are adequate evidence for that.) But, at John’s request, he’d been forced to take down the hidden cameras previously installed in 221B. A small smile stretches his lips as he remembers that night.

Jim gets up from the gritty concrete on which he was sitting. He dusts off his trousers, and meticulously checks his body for any tell-tale signs of what he’s been doing for the past couple of hours. There are a few specks of blood here and there on his t-shirt, dots of red floating in a sea of white, but John won’t mind; he’s used to it, by now.

Closing his eyes for a single moment, he allows himself twenty seconds of pure, unadulterated peace. He runs through what is going to happen over the course of the next few days. All the players are in place. Everything has been orchestrated. Nothing, not a single piece of the plan, can be mucked up, now.

He raises his chin, balls his hands into fists, and marches up, from the building’s basement stairs into the lobby.

He pays no attention to the receptionist, who is, in fact, anything but, and walks into the lift.

________________________

As soon as John step out of the shower, steam billowing theatrically and granting the spacious bathroom with an ambiance straight out of _The Creature from the Black Lagoon_ , Jim leaps up from his crouch and walks over to John with an urgency in his steps that makes John stop dead in his tracks.

Their eyes meet and John tries not to flinch from Jim’s burning gaze. After a pregnant pause, John moves to wrap a towel around his hips, turning his back on him. The warmth of his cheeks is like a slap in the face, it’s been ages since he’s felt awkward being nude around his lover.

“What’s wro--,” he starts to say, but abruptly stops. The fire in Jim’s eyes is replaced with a bleak look, filling John with a sickening anxiety. He hopes, no, prays that the answer is ‘nothing,’  because all he wants to do is spend the rest of the day with Jim, lazily fucking and eating Chinese takeout in bed and watching crap telly and just forgetting this ordeal ever happened.

Unfortunately for John, starting this very second, he’s going to stop getting anything and everything he wants.

Jim draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and proceeds to say the very same five words spoken by Sherlock Holmes half an hour ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking such an exorbitant amount of time to update; life did what it does best, and got in the way. This story will most likely be finished within a month, at most, so keep your eyes out. Title taken from 'Mountain Sound' by Of Monsters and Men.


End file.
